


Shatter me to pieces

by crayyyonn



Series: Freefall [2]
Category: GOT7, 拜託了冰箱 | Please Take Care of My Fridge
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6212191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crayyyonn/pseuds/crayyyonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weitao is still falling and it doesn't feel like he'll ever stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shatter me to pieces

This thing they have between them, whatever it is, it only happens in Beijing.

Sure, they met in Seoul way back when, a friend of a friend of a friend. They’ve gone to restaurants and noraebangs together, in crowds of even numbers. He’s even seen Jackson at the studios sometimes, on the rare days the slots for the ones designated for trainees are filled up. He always looks forward to the days when he’s told to head over for the main building, even if the most he gets is a smile and a wave.

But for all that they’re friends, for all that Jackson calls him up every now and then, for all that they’ve grown to know each other in the most biblical sense of the word, this has never happened.

This, coming back from a long day of lessons to an all-too familiar figure, blowing into cupped hands and stamping feet on the ground. This, wanting to rush up and fix the haphazardly-wrapped scarf someone let him out of the house wearing, groceries be damned. This, him, Jackson, at his building, clearly waiting for someone. For him.

Weitao’s footsteps falter, then pick up speed.

“Jiaer?”

“Ge, hey.”

Jackson’s smile is bright even under the shadow of his cap and the collar of his coat, cheeks flushed from the cold, and Weitao can’t help but beam back as he ushers him into the building. Seoul in January is ridiculously cold.

“What are you doing here?”

“You say that like you don’t want me here.”

Jackson pouts and Weitao finally gives in, reaching up to pull the knitted ends more snugly around his throat. He gets a blinding grin in return that lodges somewhere in the space between throat and heart and _oh_. He is woefully unprepared for this.

“Of course not. It’s just that you’ve never visited me before.”

The elevator dings and Weitao steps out first, leading the way. The building is one of the older apartment complexes in the district, refurbished recently before he moved in. Or so his landlord claims. While the central heating is blessedly efficient, it takes a while to adjust to the dim lights in the hallway.

The one directly above his door flickers as he punches in the code to the door, highly aware of the way Jackson’s eyes are trained on the keypad. And he’s turning around, a whole speech on invasion of privacy already playing out in his mind, but then Jackson beams at him and it’s lost.

He sighs. “Get in.”

The sound of the door closing behind him seems unnaturally loud, like a proclamation, or something equally conclusive. Weitao almost braces himself for his roommates to come poking out of their rooms like wolfhounds on a scent, before he remembers that they’re all at their classes and won’t be back until later tonight. If he’s more fanciful and less of a skeptic, he’d give the credit to fate, or destiny. Divine forces at work so Jackson and him can—he shakes away the thoughts.

One shouldn't put much stock in intangible things.

“How many roommates do you have?”

Jackson is padding around the living room, peering at the pictures one of them—he thinks it’s Xiaobai—put out next to the TV, then making a beeline for the balcony. He’s clearly unimpressed when he turns around, a single eyebrow raised in question and Weitao shrugs. The view isn’t great, but it at least affords a glimpse of the Han River.

A very tiny glimpse, when you position yourself right and crane your neck just so. Weitao almost goes to show him. He locks his feet in place so he doesn't.

“Three. Two girls, one boy.”

He almost grins when the blond head whips around, comically fast. So predictable, his Jackson. “You get to live with girls? Not fair!”

Chuckling, Weitao heads into the kitchen to put away the groceries, leaving the meat and vegetables for tonight’s dinner on an empty shelf in the fridge. They’d unanimously decided on hotpot for supper, and Weitao’s had the soup base simmering in the pressure cooker since breakfast.

Pulling open a drawer, he grabs a spoon and lifts the lid.

“What’s that? It smells delicious.”

“Soup for later. We’re having huo guo.” He dips the spoon in the broth and blows on it. “Here, try it.”

Jackson’s eyes don’t leave his as he does as bidded, lips parting to slurp more delicately than Weitao has ever seen him do. Weitao's swallow rings loud in his ears, making cherry lips curl up slightly, smugly. “It’s good.”

“Yeah?” Weitao turns and dips the soup into the pot again, for want of a distraction. He hums. “Needs a few more hours.”

Popping the lid back on, he places the spoon in the sink. “You hungry?” he asks, mind already whirring with possibilities. Noodles, perhaps. Maybe even porridge, if Jackson isn’t in a hurry. Which he thinks he isn't, but Weitao tamps down the eagerness, just in case. Anyway, he's always moaning about his mom’s century egg and lean pork porridge to Weitao, so that’s more than a firm maybe. He’s vetoing century eggs though, no matter how much Jackson wheedles. They’re way too high in cholesterol.

At least, he will _try_ to veto them. Jackson somehow always gets his way.

He’s turning to the fridge again, one hand outstretched to pull the door open and already checking off ingredients in his head when the answer comes.

“Yeah, but not for food, ge.”

Jackson’s hand is warm where it lands on his hip, slipping under the sweater to burn through his undershirt. He’s made to turn around, lower back finding the counter as the blond head leans in and tips his chin up, lips pursed for a kiss. It starts out soft, gradually turning insistent. Fingers brand his skin and Weitao gasps.

“Jiaer, wait.”

He pushes Jackson off, breathless. The normally bright eyes are already half-lidded, and when he blinks, it’s slow and sleepy. A pink tongue comes out to lick at wet, reddened lips and his dick stirs in his pants.

“Don’t wanna wait,” Jackson murmurs.

He leans in again, this time bodily so Weitao can feel nearly every inch of him, warm and hard despite the layers between them. Just for a moment, he gives into the hand pushing his head down, sucks at plush lips, before reluctantly pulling away again before he's lost.

“Is this a booty call?”

The English words are foreign on his tongue and Jackson peers up at him, blinks. “Technically I’d have to call you first.”

That’s true. Weitao opens his mouth to reply but is cut off by that hand that has travelled down to palm at his crotch. “This can be whatever you want it to be, ge.” He squeezes as if making a point, and Weitao gives in with a groan.

“Fine, but not in the kitchen,” he mutters in between one drugging kiss to the next, licks up the husky laugh.

“Lead the way, then.”

He does. 

 

It's about the third time in when Weitao finds himself thinking that it  _is_ a booty call, no matter how much Jackson tries to hedge or deny it, distract him from thinking it. Besides, it works, so Weitao lets him. 

Jackson still doesn't ring before letting himself in, by doorbell or by phone. They’re still the same—the same people, with the same routines and habits. Except now it's no longer just Beijing that's theirs, but the city they’re both temporarily calling home. 

And it always goes the same way. Jackson comes, Weitao either fucks him or feeds him or both, Jackson _comes_ , Jackson leaves.

Jackson comes and leaves and Weitao is still where he started, so caught by golden brilliance that he doesn’t realize he’s burning white hot, a mere breath away from exploding like a star on the cusp of a supernova.

But Weitao lets him. Even with stardust as his last breath, he is willing.


End file.
